A Visit to the Emergency Press Conference Coordinator
by Anonymous Axolotl
Summary: John goes to ask Pamela an interesting question... idk how to add "proper" tags so here: John/Pamela


**I don't own Welcome to Night Vale! Everything belongs to it's respective owners!**

John Peters (you know, the farmer?) stepped out onto the rickety wooden porch overlooking his imaginary corn crop. _Growing_ great _this year_ he thought. He, like many other businesses, had gone to imaginary products rather than unstable real products. Reality was just too unpredictable. He didn't really mind the perceived non-existence of items he used to be able to handle, like the newspaper. He didn't even have to go to the front door to pick the paper up anymore! Now he just sat down at the breakfast table and pictured the front headline in his hands. It was really convenient. He tossed the imaginary paper still tightly clutched in his real hands down to possible real wooden plank floor. The paper immediately disappeared. Well, there was nothing to do with the imaginary corn today. There never was. He should go see Pamela. They had become friends while she was retired. Once John had taught her the basics of fishing.

"Oh! I think you got one, Pamela!" John said. A screaming reporter with a hook in his head was being reeled in by Pamela.

"John, fishing is _so_ much _FUN_!" Pain was in her eyes. She hated retirement. When she had taken the job as Emergency Press Conference Coordinator they had still met up every week. The two of them would do something—go fishing, get tacos, anything really—together. He liked Pamela. Pamela seemed to like him, too. Well, he _thought_ Pamela liked him, at least. He had never worked up the nerve to ask her. He should ask her today.

John Peters stepped off his porch and walked around to his old blue pickup truck. He quickly pricked his finger, pressing the growing sphere of blood onto the door handle. The truck unlocked with a _chlsnhh_. As he sat down on the old leather seat he quietly chanted, turning the truck on through a special dashboard bloodstone circle. With the booming profits from his imaginary corn crop he could buy a newer model that didn't require blood and chanting, but John had grown emotionally (and physically) attached to the old blue truck.

He turned out of his front lawn and took the timeless drive to downtown Night Vale. He parked in the city hall parking lot, but didn't lock his truck. He wasn't going to shed anymore blood today, no sir. He stepped over the giant tarp used to cover city hall and entered the building. With stealth ingrained only in a farmer, John ran past the city council's room. Pamela's off was on the top floor next to Mayor Dana Cardinal's office. After coming out of retirement, Pamela had become a kind mentor to the young mayor. John climbed up the stairs and smiled at the secretary. He went down the hallway and knocked on a great oaken door.

"Come in," Pamela said. John tried to open the door. He pulled, then pushed. He rattled the door in frustration.

"They're blood operated, sweetheart," the secretary said.

"Why is every darn thing blood operated these days!" John said while pressing fresh blood on the door and saying the opening chant. The oaken doors slowly creeped open. John supposed Pamela was just cleaning up from an Emergency Press Conference. She was straightening blue folding chairs while an assistance mopped up an unidentifiable green liquid from the floor. On Pamela's desk a radio was softly playing today's weather. John thought the community radio host was a little odd, but he thought Cecil was a good kid. Plus, Cecil had always promoted imaginary corn, and, before that, transdimensional blood oranges.

" _Ohhhhhhhhhhh_ … hi, John!" Pamela dragged out the "Oh" out to an uncomfortable length, causing the assistant to start shaking and suddenly disappear. "Well, we're alone, how have you been?" She looked off into the distance and before John could answer continued. "Well, we're never really alone, are we? I mean, the Secret Police, the vague yet menacing government agency—even the world government!—they're all observing us. W."

"Yah, I'm doin' just fine, Pamela. I guess by 'alone' we mean not directly observed by other human beings," John said.

"Yah, I guess." Pamela sat in the stone throne draped in animal furs behind her desk. John sat down in front of her desk in a standard city council issued desk chair. Then they talked. They talked about everything; they talked about nothing. They continued this cycle of endless chatter for a few minutes until John remembered his reason for coming: he had to ask Pamela. She was still talking.

"You know, I never really liked transdimensional blood oranges, anyways. I think I like imaginary corn much better."

"Pamela," John started.

"Yes, I'm Pamela."

"Do you… Do you like me?"

"Of course. Why would we be talking if I didn't?"

"No! No… I mean do you like me more than just liking to talk to me. I know I like you more than just liking to talk to you." Pamela stared at John. Her face turned dark, pupils blotting out first her irises, then the whites of her eyes, and then her whole face. Then, she smiled brightly.

"Of course, I like you like that!" A knock on the door. "Oh! The reporters for my next Emergency Press Conference are here!"

"Oh, ok.I guess I should go then…"

"Yup! See you later, John!" John Peter, you know, the farmer, left happier than ever.


End file.
